Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 148184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Each pulse of pain through my body is starting to drift off to a hazy end. A few more, and maybe I’ll fall back asleep for a while. If I sleep, then maybe someone will untie me before I wake up again. Maybe Rose will be here with me when I wake up again. It’s the only solace I can find as my body starts to give out inch by inch.
When I open my eyes again, I can barely pull my eyelids apart. Good, why should I anyway? Not when everything hurts, and I can’t breathe right through the smell. But something new happens when I slit my eyes open this time. Someone is leaning over me.
I should be scared, right? Did Sal come back to finish killing me like he promised? Maybe he decided to forget the money my wedding will bring in, in favor of killing me slowly and painfully.
I try to say something to the face. It’s not Sal, nor any servant in the house. But I know his face. He’s familiar to me, yet I can’t think of where or how I know him. His hair looks shiny in the light. The overhead light is now on, I realize slowly.
His mouth is moving. It’s a pretty mouth, full and made for kissing. I don’t know anything about kissing except for what Sal has forced on me. If Sal knew I thought about kissing this stranger, he’d definitely kill me.
I drift again. Hands are on me, and I want to fight them off, slap them away like Rose would do, but I don’t have the strength. I let them touch me and can’t even open my eyes to look at them.
The next time I inch my eyes open, there’s something wet on them. Was I crying? I thought I’d run out of tears days ago, weeks ago, years ago.
Someone is speaking to me, soothing and low, as a pressure gently taps against my shoulders. It takes me a long time to figure out that the voice doesn’t want me to get up. I lift my hand high, and it flops back to the bed because I’m not tied up anymore. My limbs are still pins and needles punctuated with pain, but I can move them again, so that’s a good sign. Maybe my father came home and saw what Sal did to me. Is it sad that a daughter thinks her father will save her even after years of neglect?
“Stay the fuck down, Val,” a voice says. No one calls me Val. I blink against the bright light of the room, and then suddenly, it’s not as bright. The voice dimmed the lighting so I can open my eyes fully.
I blink a few more times and stare up into the face I thought I remembered from a dream. “Where am I?”
A warm sensation slides down my arm, and I glance over to watch him run a cloth on the same path. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll answer your questions if you stop struggling to get up,” he says.
I immediately like his voice. It’s deep and full of authority and power, but not edged with cruelty like Sal or my father. He makes me want to please him, so I stay still and let him work. Unconsciousness is still hovering at the back of my mind, ready to drag me under again. I know I’m not strong and that I need to rest, but I can’t while he’s there with that face and that voice and those lips. “I like the way you sound,” I grate out. My own voice is scratchy and raw.
From the screaming. I screamed for a long time, but no one ever came to help me.
“Don’t speak, Angel. You need to rest your throat. I’m bathing you since it gives me pleasure and calms me down, and because I want you healthy again. As for where you are, you’re in my home, but I’ve told you this several times, and it keeps slipping your mind. Don’t worry, though. The doctor says it’s normal, and you should start recovering soon.”
I shake my head, and he tsks at me, so I go still again. “Doctor? I don’t remember a doctor either.”
Things are starting to spin, and I let my eyes drift close. “Rest, Val. I’ve got you. No one is going to hurt you ever again.”
And because he says it in that voice, I believe him enough to relax and let myself drift again.
Things seem brighter the next time I wake. I open my eyes and stare up at a white ceiling. The fabric under my hands is soft and lush and smells faintly like ginger. It comes back in a rush, except now, I remember the man speaking to me had been Adrian. Although, I can’t remember how I got to his house, or in his bed, or—I lift the covers gently and stare underneath— in his clothes?